Chapter 3: Party Invites And Door Slams
1890 Words
I stared at my phone for a solid minute.
The email from Marisol: “Nice footage, Riley. Keep up the good work,” glowed my screen. I shoved my phone into my bag, marched to the bathroom, and splashed ice-cold water on my face until I felt halfway human again. The girl in the mirror stared back at me with wide, panicked eyes—mascara slightly smudged, cheeks flushed from the rink's cold, lips pressed into a thin line of determination.
You're fine. You're Riley Bennett. Social media coordinator. Professional. Unbothered. Completely and totally fine.
By Wednesday afternoon, I had filmed eight players.
I'd captured Marco Delgado's ridiculous pre-game dance, Tyler Brennan's unpopular opinion that cereal was better without milk, and even Coach Morrison's grumpy attempt at a smile that looked more like a grimace. The clips were gaining traction—Marisol had forwarded me three emails from the front office praising the "fresh energy," and the team's i********: had gained two thousand followers since Monday.
I was really good at this.
And yet, every time I checked my phone, my stomach twisted. Because of the one player I hadn't filmed yet.
Kent.
I'd seen him twice in the halls—once with a towel draped around his neck, damp hair curling at his temples, and once laughing with a group of rookies near the weight room. Both times, he'd smiled at me. Both times, I'd smiled back like a normal person instead of the internal puddle of goo I actually was.
But we hadn't managed to sync schedules. He had morning skate when I had meetings. I had editing sessions when he had media obligations. The universe was conspiring against my one chance to film the golden boy of my dreams in high-definition glory.
It was making me grumpy.
And apparently, I wasn't hiding it well.
"You look like someone stole your favorite snack," Derek said, passing me in the hallway with an armful of press packets.
"I'm fine."
"You said that yesterday. And the day before. And you definitely didn't mean it either time."
I glared at him.
He held up his hands in surrender and scurried away.
***
The team lounge was chaos when I walked in.
Music thumped from someone's portable speaker. Something bass-heavy and aggressive that vibrated in my chest. Players sprawled across couches and bean bags, still in various states of post-practice undress. The smell of protein shakes and locker-room body spray hung thick in the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of someone eating a banana.
I hovered near the door, camera bag slung over my shoulder, trying to decide if I should interrupt or wait for a natural lull.
"Riley!"
The voice came from the corner, loud and exuberant and unmistakably Marco Delgado's. He was the team's resident party animal. A wiry defenseman with tattoos snaking up both arms and a grin that could power a small city. He was also, I'd discovered during our filming session, completely incapable of sitting still for more than thirty seconds.
"Riley, Riley, Riley," he chanted, bouncing over to me with the energy of a golden retriever on espresso. "You gotta come tonight."
"Come where?"
"My place. There’s going to be a big party. The whole team, plus staff, plus whoever else wants to show up will be there." He spread his arms wide like he was announcing the Second Coming. "DJ, pool, maybe a bonfire if the neighbors don't call the cops again."
A few players groaned.
"Dude," Tyler Brennan said from the couch, not looking up from his phone. "We have a game Saturday. Coach is gonna murder you."
"Coach is invited," Marco shot back, completely unfazed. "He said no, but the invitation stands. It's the thought that counts."
Laughter rippled through the room. Even I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
"So?" Marco turned back to me, eyes bright with mischief. "You in, Highlight Honey?"
I blinked. "What did you call me?"
"Highlight Honey!" He gestured at me like I was a game show prize. "Because of the clips. Because you're making us all look good. Because—"
"Because you need to stop talking," Jax's voice cut in, smooth and dry from somewhere behind me.
I hadn't heard him come in or felt his presence. But suddenly, the air in the room felt charged, like the moment before lightning struck.
Marco laughed, completely oblivious. "Jealous, Callahan? Don't worry, I'll come up with something good for you too. How about 'Broody Batman'? Or 'Scowl King'?"
"How about you focus on not getting benched on Saturday?"
The words were light, but there was an edge underneath. I felt it in my spine, my shoulders instinctively tightened.
Marco just grinned wider. "Love you too, man. Party starts at nine. Don't be late."
He bounced away, already accosting another teammate with the same enthusiastic pitch.
I stood there, suddenly very aware that Jax was still behind me. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
Don't turn around, I told myself. Don't engage. Don't—
"Highlight Honey," Jax said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice without seeing it. "I like it. Suits you better than you think."
My cheeks burned.
Suits you better than you think.
What did that even mean? Was he mocking me? Flirting with me? Testing me?
I turned around, ready with some sharp retort, some professional deflection, some way to put distance between us without looking like I was running.
But Jax was already moving past me, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that felt deliberate, his eyes fixed on some point across the room. Just walked by like I was furniture.
It shouldn't have stung.
It did.
I was still standing there, mentally replaying the interaction and hating myself for caring, when a warm hand landed on my elbow.
"Hey."
I jumped, nearly dropping my camera bag.
Kent.
He was right there. Had he been standing there the whole time? I was usually more aware than that. He’d changed out of his practice gear into a soft gray hoodie and dark jeans, and his hair was still slightly damp, curling at the ends in a way that made my fingers itch to touch it.
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you."
"You didn't," I lied. "I was just... thinking."
"About the party?"
"No. Work."
He tilted his head, studying me with an expression that was somehow both amused and genuinely interested. "You work too hard, Riley Bennett. I've been watching you."
My heart did a complicated gymnastics routine.
"You've been... watching me?"
"Everyone's been watching you." He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.
His eyes held mine, warm and open and completely unlike the dark, assessing gaze that had been haunting my dreams. Kent looked at me like I was worth looking at. Like I was interesting and capable and seen.
It was intoxicating.
"So," he said, and his thumb brushed lightly against my elbow where his hand still rested. "About that party."
"What about it?"
"You should come."
The words were simple. But the way his gaze flickered to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes, made them feel like something else entirely.
"I don't know," I said, even though every fiber of my being was screaming YES YES YES. "I have a lot of editing to do. And I'm not really a party person."
That was true, I realized with a jolt. I wasn't a party person. The last party I'd gone to had been senior year of college, and it had ended with me crying in a bathroom stall while people laughed outside the door.
But Kent's smile didn't falter. If anything, it softened.
"Then come for an hour," he said. "And if you hate it, I'll drive you home myself."
He said it like a promise.
The warmth in my cheeks spread to my chest, to every part of me that had ever felt invisible.
"Okay," I breathed, and the word came out before I could second-guess it. "Yes. I'll come."
Kent's grin widened into something blinding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Perfect." He squeezed my elbow, his touch lingering just a beat longer than necessary. "I'll text you the address. And Riley?"
"Yeah?"
"Wear something that isn't work clothes. You deserve to have fun."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the hallway with the same easy stride that had carried him through every moment of my four-year obsession.
I stood there, floating, my heart doing somersaults in my chest.
Kent Harlow wanted me to have fun.
I was grinning like an i***t, already mentally picturing every possible combination in my closet for the perfect outfit, when a loud bang made me jump.
The door to the lounge had slammed shut.
I turned.
Jax was gone.
I hadn't seen him leave. He'd been across the room a minute ago, radiating that cool, observant energy that made my skin prickle. The next, the door was vibrating on its hinges and the space where he'd stood was empty.
A few players glanced up, confused.
"What got into him?" someone muttered.
"Probably the game Saturday," someone else answered. "He's been weird since the trade."
Weird since me, more like.
I stared at the closed door, my euphoric haze cracking slightly. Jax had been watching Kent and I just now. I knew he'd been watching. And now he was gone, and the room felt lighter without him, but somehow also...
Emptier?
No. That was ridiculous. I didn't want Jax Callahan anywhere near me. I didn't want his dark eyes or his loaded comments or his ability to see straight through every wall I'd built.
I wanted Kent. Warm, safe, golden Kent who smiled at me like I mattered.
So why was I still staring at the door?
"Riley?"
I turned. Marisol stood in the hallway, tablet in hand, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Just got an email from the front office," she said. "Your Jax clip? Already at fifty thousand views. The comments are... interesting."
My stomach dropped. "Interesting how?"
She handed me the tablet.
The top comment, highlighted in blue, had twelve thousand likes:
"Who is the girl filming him?? The tension is INSANE. Ship it."
Below it, another:
"Jax Callahan has NEVER looked at anyone like that. Whoever she is, she's special."
And another:
"The way he leaned in?? The way she bit her lip?? This is a romance novel waiting to happen."
I scrolled faster, my face burning, my heart hammering.
More comments. Hundreds more. All noticing the same thing. They saw it. The whole internet saw it. The video made it look like I was already involved with the one person I was desperately trying to avoid.
Marisol took the tablet back, her expression unreadable.
"Good work," she said. "The engagement is exactly what we needed. Just... maybe keep things professional at Marco's party tonight."
She walked away before I could respond.
I can do that, I told myself. This is completely fine.
Drowning, a voice whispered in my head as if anwering a question. You're drowning, Riley Bennett. And the worst part is, you're not even sure you want to be saved.
- Writer
